My palms are a tracery of lines,
Short life, no love, bad communication
Complex finances, and little in the way of luck.
(That is, if fortune tellers are to be trusted.)

My hands are artist's hands, but not artistic
Scarred, scaly, callused.
The wrist and fingers are slender, too slender
My knuckles poke out like white pebbles-
These are violent hands, with long fingers
That know a body's weak points
(Especially about the neck)
And the impact of a well-rooted strike,

These are sturdy hands
That can saw straight,
Carry their own weight.
They are clumsy hands.
Masculine hands.

They are also hands that speak eloquently
At a piano; that read a violin by touch in the dark.
My hands can explore the poetry of tree branches
Ready to bloom in early spring.
They can thread the needles that prick them,
Can find a place on a sorrowing shoulder,
Can weave and shape almost anything.
They know how to manipulate a pen into a picture,
How to send a universe into a keyboard,
And how to find the clever cracks that lead to open doors.

My palms discourage, my knuckles damage, my fingers
discover.
Perhaps, then, it is worth the loss
Of one girl's daydream-
Elegant hands.